


College is a Mess (But They Kinda Like it Anyways)

by hangoversfinest



Category: Marvel, Marvel (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, F/F, F/M, Love Confessions, M/M, Roommates
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-11
Updated: 2016-12-25
Packaged: 2018-08-30 11:10:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,151
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8530756
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hangoversfinest/pseuds/hangoversfinest
Summary: Steven Grant Rogers wakes up snuggling a trashcan filled mostly with his own vomit. He’s also the little spoon to a blow up doll. He lifts his head a fraction of an inch and glares at his roommate, who is wearing pink fuzzy handcuffs and a bra. “I hate you.”Tony Stark just waves his free hand. “I know, I know.”





	1. One.

One _._

 

Steven Grant Rogers wakes up snuggling a trashcan filled mostly with his own vomit. He’s also the little spoon to a blow up doll. He lifts his head a fraction of an inch and glares at his roommate, who is wearing pink fuzzy handcuffs and a bra. “I hate you.”

Tony Stark just waves his free hand. “I know, I know.”

 

_24 hours earlier…_

 

* * *

  

**The Carnie, the Norse God, and the Potential Assassin**

 

Clint Barton grins broadly into the warm September afternoon and lifts his bag a little higher up on his shoulders. He slips his sunglasses off and lets them hang off his shirt collar.

_College._

No one was stupid enough to bet that Clint would ever wind up here. In fact, more than half his family thinks it’s some sort of con.

But nope.

He’s going to university.

And it’s _perfect._

Harried upper middle class families wielding heavy bags and boxes spilling into and out of the red brick building like spiders. There’s shouting. At least four different sources of conflicting music. Someone’s lit up a joint. And when his daughter isn’t paying attention, a very respectable-looking dad pulls out of a flask.

Yeah, it’s perfect.

He ducks into the dormitory, stopping near a table. A nervous woman is handing out keys attached to lanyards, meanwhile also trying to scream instructions at pissed-off people.

There’s a small line.

Not much of one.

But Clint gets comfortable.

People watching.

These strangers could be his neighbors, his drinking buddies… maybe even a girlfriend. He catches the eye of a tall blonde, _the possibilities are endless._ And that leggy, wide-eyed creature is just his type.

The line moves forward, and now there’s only one person in front of him.

Big guy.

Blonde. Broad shoulders.

The woman flushes when she looks at him, even if she’s nearly forty years his senior and playing absentmindedly with her wedding ring. “Um, nuh-name?”

The guy leans forward and says politely, “Steven Rogers, ma’am. I should be staying with James Barnes?”

She looks down at the paper list in front of her, Her pencil tracing down the long line of names. She flips to the second page. To the third page. She looks up at Steven Rogers and her face is scared. “I’m suh-so sorry. There was a-a misshap with the computer system and all of the rooms on your floor got mixed up and, and-- here’s your key. 506. Fifth floor.”

Rogers hesitates before turning towards the stairs, looking confused and holding a room key.

Clint shrugs and steps up. “Clint Barton,” he says, smirking down at the old woman. “Should be in a double somewhere.”

 _Apparently,_ the Barton charms and good looks don’t do anything for this old bird. Because she doesn’t blush or stutter about a computer error and just shoves the key at Clint. “It’s actually a triple. 502. Fifth floor.”

He shoots her a look and walks away from the table.

There’s currently a battle of the wills on the elevator, where a tiny brunette is trying to fit in a large machine thing that absolutely will _not_ fit inside. There’s a line about ten people deep behind her, with equally ridiculous boxes and fridges and such behind her.

So Clint takes the stairs.

Which are only moderately less chaotic.

The fifth floor is a strange place.

Right off the bat.

There’s a knife buried in the bulletin board. It’s pinning a notice up, welcoming everyone to the fifth floor and reminding them that there will be a floor meeting on Tuesday night at seven (ice cream is provided).

Clint’s eyes slip from the heavy duty knife-- and he knows a thing or two about knives-- and two the cheery note and laughs.

He actually misses 502 because it’s tucked into a corner.

When he finally finds it, the door is open wide and there’s a beaming blonde giant inside laughing loudly and holding his arms out. The Norse god’s whole face lights up when he sees Clint and he quickly embraces the newcomer. “You must be our third! Welcome! Welcome to the room!”

The room is small. Three lofted beds shoved against opposite corners, light spilling in through one opened window. There’s one dresser, one desk and one closet for each bed. And a strange support pillar going through the dead center of the room.

“My name is Thor Odinson.”

The giant claps Clint on the back enthusiastically.

Dude’s strong.

“Barton,” he says, smiling back. “Clint Barton.”

“Bond. _James_ Bond.” A voice mocks from the corner.

Clint’s eyes narrow and he turns around. Perched on the top of her bed, feet dangling over the ladder, a redhead smirks at him with bedroom eyes and a strangely threatening demeanor. At his surprise, she laughs a little. “Yeah, the computer mix up _really_ messed things up. I was supposed to be across campus but somehow I end up _here._ On an all-male floor with you two.”

She hops down to the floor and doesn’t offer her hand. “Natasha Romanoff. Nice to meet you Barton, _Thor.”_

She’s smaller than she carries herself. Short red curls and a face that’s more interesting than beautiful. She wears jean shorts and a white tank top the same way that braver men wear fatigues.

And she doesn’t break his eye contact.

Thor’s booming yell breaks their spell and he opens his arms wide. “We should drink to celebrate our new home!” He reaches behind his duffel and heaves out a growler.

Clint laughs, dropping his bag to the floor between his boots. He reaches in and pulls out a fifth of Jack. “I think I’m gonna like this place.”

Natasha quirks an eyebrow at both of them and picks a bottle of what can only be Russian vodka. “Yeah,” she says, eyes flickering over Clint. “I think we can make this work.”

  


* * *

  

**The Choir Boy and the Billionaire**

 

Okay.

So he’s not rooming with Bucky.

No big deal.

Steve doesn’t need his childhood best friend to hold his hand through the next big chapter of their lives. _True_ , Steve did choose to go to a school mostly because Bucky was going here on a full baseball scholarship. I mean, he still got a full ride football scholarship out of it. So there’s that.

But if he’s honest with himself, it’s mostly Bucky.

Steve stops in front of 506 and stares at the fake wood.

There could be a new friend on the other side.

_Another Bucky._

Well, not a replacement for Bucky. No one could replace Bucky. But maybe another person who is patient enough to get Steve. Look past the star football quarterback exterior and see the vulnerability, the pain, the skinny asthmatic kid who grew up dirt poor in Brooklyn.

Well, _everyone’s_ poor in college.

Steve takes a deep breath and opens the door to 506 and he couldn’t have been more wrong if he tried.

There’s a flat screen TV on the wall that cost more than everything in Steve’s bag, and the guy trying to screw it into the wall is wearing a watch that doubles everything.

Steve’s bag drops to the ground before the guy looks over.

A quick grin and styled hair. He quickly slips his sunglasses off his face, tucking them into the neck of his white button down. The sleeves are rolled up to his forearms, and there are _cuff links._ He isn’t wearing a tie but there’s a suit jacket tossed carelessly over the back of a steel chair that most definitely didn’t come with the room.

He takes Steve’s hand. “Hi, new roomie? I’m sure you know already, I’m Tony Stark. I thought I was getting the single room, but looks like there was an issue with the computers…”

Steve did recognize him.

Stark is on the front of the news site that Steve checks out every morning. He built some sort of conductor engine thing and was raking in the money for it.

Steve’s distinct thoughts after reading the interview were not positive.

Well, mostly not positive.

_Cute._

But, _what an ass._

Steve gapes at Stark, still shaking hands. But his roommate doesn’t look too worried. He pries his hand out of Steve’s and heads back for the TV. “I hope you don’t mind, I already did some research and found out who you were. Steven Grant Rogers, all-star quarterback. You could have gone to _any_ school you wanted but you chose this dump.”

“It’s not a dump,” Steve murmurs, edging into the room. For whatever reason, he doesn’t want to put his back to Stark. “Number one engineering program in the world. National-title-holding baseball team. One of the best art programs in the country.”

“Yeah,” Stark scoffs, looking over his shoulder. “And you came here for the art program.”

“What if I did?” Steve spits back, hackles rising.

Stark stops, and looks over at Steve, slow grin building over his face. “Football-playing art-student? I hate to play the stereotypes but _gaaay.”_

Stark was joking.

Mostly.

But Steve ducked away and his cheeks flushed bright red. When he was able to look back up at Tony Stark, billionaire playboy he had fantasized about a few times, his new roommate was gaping at him in stunned silence. He didn’t know it then, but so very rarely was Tony Stark ever _silent._

Anyways, that was how Steve Rogers ever came out to anyone for the first time in his life.

Yeah.

Not so great.

 

* * *

  

**They’re just… They’re just really freaking pissed off.**

 

Bucky recognizes him.

Obviously.

He’s on the football team.

 _Steve’s_ on the football team.

This doucheface is some loudmouth tight end who can’t stay focused long enough to run a damn play.

His name is Sam Wilson. He introduced himself earlier. _Rudely._

Apparently he didn’t like Bucky either.

At least it’s mutual.

There was a brief argument over who got which bed. There was a guy in the room to the left of theirs who immediately started having wild, loud monkey sex with his girlfriend. Both of them wanted the bed _not_ against that wall. There was a stare down. A couple of veiled threats.

They settled it with an arm wrestling match.

Which Bucky won.

Handedly.

Afterwards, he stood up and made a remark about Sam having _bird bones._ Sam replied heatedly that at least he wasn’t pining over his best friend.

They glared at each other long enough for the imminent threat of violence to be enough for one of their RAs to clear his throat nervously and step into the room.

The RA stuck his hand out at Sam first. “My name’s Phil. Nick and I are the RAs for this floor. I just wanted to say that we’re having an ice cream social on Tuesday to get to know everybody and go over rules for the floor and maybe select a floor representative.”

Nick, the other RA, leaned against the door, glaring and obviously hating his life. He looked mildly interested when there was the possibility of Sam and Bucky fighting, but when _Phil_ diffused the situation, he went back to glowering and hating everything. He had a nasty scar over one eye that Bucky almost wanted to ask about.

The two RAs disappeared though and left Sam and Bucky in a tense and angry silence.

Bucky shoves his underwear into the tiny dresser and shoots a dark look over his shoulder.

Why couldn’t his roommate have been Steve?

 

* * *

 

**Forever alone.**

 

Bruce Banner sinks back into his bed and stares glumly at the empty room.

He’s been dreaming about this for _years._

In his mind’s eye, college was always the place where he found peers. Where he finally belonged to something. Where he wasn’t just the smart guy in class.

Whenever he thought about it, it was always sunny. He was roommates with a guy with a different set of ideals and they argued about their beliefs passionately, but not angrily. They changed each other and became friends.

_Friends._

Fat chance he has of making friends when he doesn’t even have a roommate.

“Whuh--what do you mean I’m in a single room?”

The woman looked up at him, in two seconds flat turning into a grandmother. “I’m so sorry, dear. But there was a mix-up with the computers. Everything on the fifth floor got mixed around and you’re in a single room. By yourself. It’s 507.”

He looked so distressed that she put her hand on his. “It’s okay. You’ll probably end up liking this better.”

He didn’t.

He was supposed to be roommates with a guy named Thor Odinson. Great name. There had to be a story there.

Even Bruce could start a conversation with a guy named Thor.

He did some research.

The guy is on the _football_ team. And from his picture on the team roster, he looked like a great guy. He wore a wide welcoming smile and shoulder length blonde hair that didn’t detract from his masculinity at all.

Bruce slumps down a little lower in his bed.

How _pathetic._

He almost jumps out of his skin when his door bursts open. A young guy with dark hair lets himself into Bruce’s room looking around the place contemptuously before his eyes settle on Bruce.

“You.” He says.

“Me?” Bruce straightens up a little, adjusting his glasses. “I’m sorry what did--”

“You stole my room,” the guy accuses him, cocking his head to the side. _“I_ was supposed to get the solo room. Instead I’m bunking with Boy Scout of the Year and you are sitting _there.”_

Bruce tenses. Another bully?

“I’m sorry, I didn’t--”

The guy chuckles, tension in his face breaking. He holds his hand out. “You look like you’re about to wet yourself. I couldn’t do it any more. Don’t worry about it. My dad wanted me to bunk alone. Less distractions _,_ he said. It’s like he doesn’t know me at all. M’name’s Tony Stark. Who’re you?”

Tony Stark?

 _The_ Tony Stark?

Tony Stark who just complained about his father, _Howard Stark_ Mechanical Engineer of the Millennia?

Bruce holds his hand out and just gapes. “I, uh, I’m… I’m uh, Bruce. Bruce Banner.”

“Bruce,” Tony repeats, smiling. “Nice to meet you. I’m trying to figure out who all of the cool kids are on this floor and you look like one of them. Wanna come meet the rest with me?”

“I, uh…”

_Friends._

Is Bruce really that lucky?

  



	2. Two.

 

Tony drags Bruce Banner out into the hallway. Across the way, the opened door of  _ his _ room reveals a meticulous roommate carefully folding up his white crew-neck undershirts. When Rogers finally looks up, Tony’s stomach kicks.

A little.

Rogers’ face becomes unreadable as those baby blues flick over Tony, but his smile becomes genuine and reaches his whole face when he sees Bruce. Boy Extraordinaire sticks out his hand and introduces himself. “Steve Rogers. Nice to meet you.”

And he  _ means _ it.

Tony barely stops his eyes from narrowing suspiciously. How the hell is he supposed to live with  _ this _ for a year? Actual perfection.

The son his dad always wanted.

Bruce introduces himself shakily.

No small fry either, Tony wonders what his deal is.

Bruce looks like poetry. Soft, dark, curly hair. Greenish eyes. A broad, naturally handsome face. Maybe he’s a little shorter, maybe he isn’t stacked like a body builder like  _ Rogers _ , but he’s taller than Tony and he isn’t exactly scrawny.

If Bruce is poetry though, Tony hates to say it but Rogers is  _ the _ Adonis himself.

The Thinker. The Statue of David.

Michelangelo’s greatest homoerotic dream materialized just to curse humanity. Every fantastical mental image that inspired the next sculpture, the next painting-- all of it was born into Steven  _ fucking _ Rogers.

Tony’s stomach twists again.

But this time it’s guilt.

Because he  _ outed _ the Golden God within five minutes.

Obviously, for someone’s who’s so buried in the closet that he should’ve run into either Narnia or Tony by accident at this point, and he  _ outed _ him.

“We’re trying to meet everyone on the floor,” Tony chirps, carefully forcing his face to act like he isn’t affected by the baby blues of his roommate. “You know,  _ besides _ Cheery and Grumpy.”

“The RAs?” Rogers asks, raising his eyebrows, voice carefully measured. “Clever. Yeah I’ll go with you. Wanted to find out where Bucky is anyways.”

Bucky, as it happens to be, is the perfect yin to Rogers’  _ stoopid _ perfect yang.

The door to his room is open already.

And the tension is so thick that Tony almost wishes he brought his electrometer.

There’s a handsome black guy straightening out the covers on his bed and he grins up at Rogers. They do that manly embrace thing that all the masculine types do. For half of a heartbeat, Tony wishes that he’d been cool enough to pull that off with Rogers.

For the second half of that heartbeat, he’s completely lost staring awestruck at  _ Bucky. _

Well, for half of that heartbeat and a few others after that.

Tony’s still gaping a little when Bucky begrudgingly sticks his hand out to Tony, having already introduced himself to Bruce. Tony takes it, strong grip.

And Bucky is  _ everything. _

The literal answer to everything.

Why Rogers is so damn buried in the closet, probably how Rogers found out he was in the closet in the first place… and just  _ everything _ in between.

Tony looks over at his reluctant roommate and he’s pretty sure his heart breaks.

Well, as much as it can.

Because the way that Steve Rogers is looking at Bucky and the way that Bucky’s looking right back… there’s no way that they aren’t at least a  _ little _ aware of their feelings for each other.

And there goes the neighborhood.

The five-minute dream that Tony was stupid enough to have.

He already outed his perfect, godly neighbor. There was that stupid fantasy playing in his head, where slowly he and Rogers warmed up to each other. They would have tea and coffee (Tony lives for the black temptress and Steve won’t dare touch it… at least in his head) in little shops on frosty winter mornings. They would hold each other during cold nights and slowly discover their feelings for each other in absentminded touches.

No.

Rogers might be out of the closet, but Tony is very comfortably chilling in Narnia.

_ Dammit. _

 

* * *

 

 

**Birdman…** **_Really?_ **

 

It was probably as bad as it could get.

Shithead of the  _ Year _ is his roommate  _ and _ the star quarterback’s best friend from childhood.

Also very gay.

Sam’s tempted. Seducing a little white chocolate like Bucky Barnes is the kind of thing that keeps his game where it’s supposed to be.

But besides the fact that Bucky Barnes is  _ completely _ out of his league, he is also desperately in love with Steve Rogers.

Well, I mean,  _ really. _

Who isn’t in love with Steve Rogers?

Or… Tony Stark for that matter?

And let’s not knock the sensitive guy standing in between them.

Sam doesn’t really get the vibe that the new guy might be down for a little  _ homo _ between the sheets, but Sam likes to call himself “the Conversion Factor.” And despite what the rest of the team thinks, it has less to do with his ability to recover fumbles on the field and more to do with what he does in his free time.

Oh, you’re straight?

That’s  _ cute. _

And then his roommate.

Isn’t. Even. A.  **Little.** Straight.

But so desperately gone for someone else that Sam feels the rom com in his head has completely shattered.

I mean, who doesn’t want the  _ I-hate-you-but-I-don’t _ trope?

Really?

“Meeting the rest of the floor?” Sam repeats, grinning at Steve. “Yeah, I’m down. Finished packing anyways.”

Steve turns to Bucky. “You coming?”

Bucky isn’t finished packing. Not by a long shot. But he obviously can’t say no to  _ Steve. _

Sam’s stomach twists in bitter jealousy.

_ Fuck. Get it out of your head. _

There’s an opened door at the end of the hall and loud laughter coming from it. Without talking to each other, they head for that room. Two guys and a  _ girl? _

The redhead smirks, perched gracefully in a chair, and perfectly at home with herself.

Her roommates?

One is doing a handstand and the other is holding an empty  _ tankard. _

Well, not really a tankard, but a growler.

Sam’s face splits into a wide grin.  _ This. _ This is what he needs. After everything else today. All of the  _ Bucky. _

Yeah. These are the people he’s gonna hang out with.

The redhead’s eyebrow jumps up.  “I’m Natasha. This is Thor and Clint. Why don’t you pull up a chair?”

 

* * *

 

  
  


**There’s just way too much** **_noise!_ **

 

It’s the floor above hers.

_ Directly _ above hers.

Jane Foster purses her lips, ankle jumping obsessively. Her two roommates are trying not to laugh at her as they casually get to know each other despite the  _ obnoxious _ noise coming from the their ceiling.

Maria Hill and Darcy Lewis.

Maria is quietly antagonistic while Darcy is adamantly instigating something with Jane.

Not, like,  _ with _ Jane.

But Jane gets the weird feeling that Darcy’s trying to get her to do something.

Finally, Jane groans expressively, tightening her fingers in her hair. “I can’t even  _ think _ with all of the noise that they’re making!”

Maria looks at her like  _ ‘there’s nothing you can do about it.’ _

Darcy looks at her like  **_‘what_ ** _ are you going to do about it?’ _

In answer to both, Jane straightens up, “I’m going to tell them to shut up.”

The two exchange a quick grin and they follow Jane up the stairs to the the fifth floor. The  _ fifth floor. _

Everyone had been hearing all day about issues in regards to the fifth floor. All of the rooms got mixed up. Some people were pissed. The RAs were kind of weird.

And now they were  _ noisy. _

Ripping the door out of the stairwell open, it isn’t exactly difficult to pinpoint the noise. There’s a lot of it and it’s coming from directly across from the elevator. The room  _ directly _ above Jane’s. And if she’s not mistaken, another triple.

The door is wide open, so there’s no point in knocking.

This is stupid.

First day. Move-in day.

And she’s going to go about being her stupid, anal self and tell people--  _ normal _ people to shut up just because she’s  _ stupid _ and can’t think.

She worked so hard for her new roommates.

She wanted a color scheme for their dorm.

It would be better that way.

But Maria really liked dark navy blue and Darcy really liked bright orange. And  _ obviously _ that wouldn’t work. So Jane just decided that they all do their own thing. She spent hours trying to find some obscure hybrid that would accommodate both navy and orange but came up with nothing.

But color schemes weren’t important.

Finally making friends was.

Jane desperately wanted friends.

And she’s about to ruin it by yelling at people who clearly already made friends.

But she can’t  _ think. _

She steps through the door and--

_ Oh. _

He’s leaning against a dresser, one arm stretched out, bathed in a pool of sunlight. Sunlight that is dim and dull and dark just from the brightness of his smile. And the warmth on his face.

Jane Foster’s heart slips into her stomach and the floor drops out from beneath her.

But  _ he’s _ up on his feet in seconds and she’s pulled in against a rock hard chest. “New friends,” he beams broadly. “I’m Thor Odinson. What are your names?”

Maria smiles towards everyone else in the room and introduces herself. Darcy smirks and does the same.

Conversation resumes.

Dull chatter and loud occasional laughter.

Maria and Darcy are soon drinking from the stereotypical red solo cups without hesitation and the room returns to its previous state.  _ He _ is the only one to look down at her and ask again for her name.

“I, uh… I’m Jane.”

Plain old Jane.

“Jane,” he repeats. Voice deep and rich. The warmth in his smile and the sunlight that almost seems to crown him reaches out to her and curls deep in her stomach. She might be melting. Not entirely sure. “Come sit next to me… Please.”

He adds it as an afterthought.

Then with seriousness.

Like she might be able to say no to him.

He kicks a guy off the couch propped under one of the lofted beds  _ (Tony Stark!) _ and asks her to sit next to him… again. He asks if she wants a drink, water. He tells her that the liquid in the cups isn’t light, but if she wants, he can get her some wine.

Looking into his eyes, she agrees to the wine.

And snuggles herself against his warm chest as the night drags on and she giggles with every outburst of noise.

And it’s just the first day.


	3. Three.

Three.

 

Steven Grant Rogers wakes up snuggling a trashcan filled mostly with his own vomit. He’s also the little spoon to a blow up doll. He lifts his head a fraction of an inch and glares at his roommate, who is wearing pink fuzzy handcuffs and a bra. “I hate you.”

Tony Stark just waves his free hand. “I know, I know.”

He picks himself up slowly, rubbing his eyes and shoving the blow up doll away from him, like she might have a disease. And, I mean, she  _ is _ Barton’s.

It’s a definite possibility.

Stark groans, jerking against the hand cuffed above his head. “Can you… I don’t know, can you fix this?”

It takes several minutes but Steve drags himself out of bed. He stumbles hazily over to Stark and jerks weakly on the fuzzy handcuffs. Almost horrified, he stares down at his hands. He can’t remember the last time he felt this weak. Finally, stumbling back and groaning, “I can’t… I tried…”

Stark makes a strange sound.

Like a half-laugh, half-sob.

“I’m pretty sure,” he mutters, head sagging down. “That this is  _ exactly _ how my dad thought that college would go for me.”

A pale blue bra and pink fuzzy handcuffs?

Steve runs a hand through his hair. “I think that the bra is that-- that girl down the hall’s… I dunno about the handcuffs though.”

“Natasha.” Stark mutters.

“Huh?”

“The girl down the hall,” Stark forces himself to look up at Steve and apparently doesn’t like what he sees, based on the grimace. Steve’s stomach twists. “Her name is Natasha. Ask her if the handcuffs are hers,  _ please. _ I’ve been trying to get out of them for hours.”

“Hours?” Steve repeats, stepping for the door. “We’ve barely been up for five minutes.”

_ “You _ ,” Stark says, looking down again, at the space between his legs like it’ll swallow him up.  _ “You’ve _ barely been up for five minutes, Boy Wonder. I’ve been up since three.”

He raises his head. And for a second, his eyes meet Steve’s.

_ Deep _ chocolate brown.

Like melted chocolate.

Or the color of a worn leather jacket, baked in summer sunlight.

Or… other things.

Stark looks away again. “I’m not good at sleeping.”

He doesn’t know what else to say so Steve goes out into the hallway and blearily tries to find his way towards the room at the corner of the hall. The  _ Triplet. _ Natasha’s room.

On his way, he steps over the two girls from the floor below. They sleep soundly and comfortably on top of each other. Casual intimacy.

It’s like Steve was stabbed in the stomach.

He watches them for a second.

Bitterly.

Before pushing back down towards Natasha’s room.

The first thing he sees is the handstand guy. Brown hair, broad strong shoulders…  _ yakking his guts out into a trash can. _ He raises his head up at the newcomer and, vaguely, a name comes back to Steve.

“How’re you doing there, Clint?” He asks bravely, hazarding a guess based on instinct.

In reply, Clint groans and tries to vomit into the trash can.

“What are you doing here, Captain America?”

Steve’s neck cracks with how quickly his head jumps up.

Natasha is sitting on top of a bunk (definitely not hers, if he remembers correctly), legs crossed neatly under herself, completely dressed and looking fine. She watches him carefully.

“I, uh,” Steve reaches up, rubbing the back of his neck. “Tony he’s, uh, got these handcuffs and he needs to get out.”

From the garbage can, Clint groans something unintelligible.

“We can help,” Natasha translates, hopping off of the top bunk, while completely avoiding the ladder. Clint forces himself to a standing position next to her.

“Where’s… ‘or?” 

“Jane,” Natasha says, without looking back, “From the fourth floor. She said she wanted to go on a walk last night. He took her. I’m assuming he’s still with her.”

Apparently, Natasha is the only one unaffected by the previous night’s unwarranted festivities. Bruce Banner stumbles out of the women’s bathroom wearing nothing but an inner tube. He flushes deep crimson and darts across the hall into his room.

Steve raises his eyebrows. “I don’t think… I didn’t expect to see that.”

Clint burps.

When they get back to Steve’s room, Stark has somehow managed to take off the bra, but not the handcuffs. He holds the lacy, pale blue contraption out to Natasha. “Here you go,” he says, with as much dignity as he can muster. “I believe this belongs to you.”

Her eyebrows raise again.

“No. No it doesn’t.”

Tony Stark holds it out at arm’s length and stares at it.

And all he can say is--

“Oh.”

 

* * *

 

**I’m good with handcuffs.**

 

Clint vaguely recognizes Dolly. He shoots a scathing look at Steve, picks her off the bed and tosses her to Natasha, who catches the blow up doll as if it’s what she’d been expecting the whole time. She follows him over to Tony Stark’s handcuffed wrist and curiously peers over his shoulder.

He can feel her like she’s a heater and he’s shivering in the dead of winter.

_ Click. _

“There,” Clint grins, straightening up. “Got it.”

Stark massages his wrist as if he’d been to prison or something, with  _ actual _ handcuffs and stands up. He makes a beeline out of the room, muttering something about pee.

“You’re good with locks,” Natasha remarks idly, peering over his shoulder.

He catches her eye and grins. “I’m good with _ handcuffs.” _

She searches him.

Strips him down and probes deep into his head like she’s got a map or something. And then she leans back and there’s a small smirk at the corner of her lips. “That’s disappointing.”

_ “What?” _

He’s following her out of the room, leaving Steve there, staring confused at the bra in his hand. She stops in the hallway and he almost runs into her. When she turns, they’re way too close to each other. And even though she seriously has to look up at him, he almost feels small in front of her.

It’s not just a smirk anymore.

It’s a fucking promise.

It’s fire edging along his bones. It’s fear and temptation crawling up his spine. The hairs on the back of his neck and arms stand on end. He can’t look away. It’s a train wreck and a hurricane. A travesty and history. There’s a burn deep in his gut and a want deeper and heavier than the weights he used to carry with the circus.

She  _ stole _ him.

“I said,” her voice lowers, a whisper. “That’s disappointing. When I tie things up,” small teeth sink into her lower lip. “I like them to  _ stay _ tied up.”

Her eyes flicker over him and then she turns, heading back for their room.

She’s halfway down the hall, stepping over Darcy and Maria when Clint finally replies.

“Liar.”

  
  


* * *

 

**Still… They’re still so very pissed.**

 

The bed isn’t big enough for both of them.

But that’s more than half of the fun.

Sam slips further back. The  _ warmth _ and the hardness behind him. Bare, soft skin covering lean, taut muscle. Unconsciously, a smile slips over his face.

Naked skin against his.

How long has it been?

Heavy weight across his waist, an arm draped over him. So intimate.

_ Damn. _

Sam feels himself stiffen.

His body tightens and in response, the body next to his shifts. Waking up.

The arm around his waist tightens a little, pulling him back.

God this is fucking perfect.

Well, hello morning wood. Thank you for  _ this _ awkward situation.

Speaking of awkward… where’s his roommate for that matter? Sam called Bucky out just yesterday for having a crush on his best friend and now he’s going to wake up to Sam spooning another dude. Sam can already imagine the condescending look on Bucky’s face.

Sam raises his head just enough to peer across the room at Bucky’s bed and assess the situation here.

The other bed is empty.

And  _ his? _

Sam shuts his eyes. And opens them again, horror slowly curdling in the pit of his stomach. That’s his pillow and his blanket over on the  _ other _ side of the room.

So he’s…

In Bucky’s bed?

Sam let’s out a mangled yelp and scrambles off of the bed so quickly and so violently that he slips on the ground and almost hits his head on the dresser. Dragging himself back across the floor, he stares horrified at where Bucky slowly picks himself up.

Long, dark hair hanging in his face.

No shirt.

Broad muscular chest.

_ Fuuuck. _

Clarity hits Bucky like a truck and his grey eyes widen. He pushes himself back against the wall, as far away from Sam as he can possibly get. “What the hell--”

“No,” Sam shouts, jumping to his feet. “You don’t get to say what the hell.  _ I _ get to.  _ I _ get to say what the hell. What the  _ hell _ , man? What happened last night?”

“How is this my fault-- you were in  _ my _ bed--”

“You probably tricked me--”

“How could I have tricked--”

“--just because I’m not some blonde quarterback doesn’t mean--”

“You leave Steve out of this!”

“I can’t believe--”

“--okay, asshole--”

When they finally stop yelling, their chests are heaving and they’re glaring at each other. It’s quiet for a few seconds.

Angry, but quiet.

Bucky pushes himself off the bed, landing lightly on his bare feet.

Sam tries very hard not to pay attention to the way that the early morning light plays off the muscles in his back and arms. Because  _ damn. _ And he always thought Steve was distracting.

“Okay,” Bucky mutters, holding his hands out. “Let’s just--”

“Not talk about this,” Sam says, standing up too. “As in  _ ever. _ It never happened.”

“Fine,” Bucky spits. He raises his head, “Where the hell are you going now?”

_ To yank it? _

Is that something you can tell your roommate that you just reluctantly cuddled with?

Sam grunts, “Bathroom.”

He’s walking down the hallway and passes Steve and Tony’s room. Peering in, he sees Tony handcuffed to a lofted bed and trying to wiggle out of a lacy blue bra.

And Sam thinks he’s seen it all at that point.

But then Bruce Banner comes out of the bathroom, ass naked except for an inner tube around his naughty bits.

Sam stops then.

He looks down at little Sam and blinks.

“None of this is helping anything, is it?”

 

* * *

 

 

**He slept on the floor.**

 

Jane turns over, snuggling a little deeper into the familiar smell of her blankets. Her knees curl up against her chest. Eyes open blearily, looking out over her new dorm. And her roommates beds are…  _ empty? _

Sitting up, she catches herself just before slamming her head on the ceiling above her. Crawling cautiously down the ladder, she looks around the room for any clues as to where her roommates are.

She almost steps on him.

Thor Odinshield sprawled out on his stomach, face buried into her purple shag carpet. He snores quietly and doesn’t have a pillow or a blanket.

He’s  _ huge _ .

“Oh my god,” Jane drops next to him, one hand on his big arm. The noise wakes him up and he turns over, looking at her, face lighting up.

“Not a bad way to wake up,” he shrugs sitting up. Raising his arms over his head, he stretches and Jane’s stomach flips.

Like back flips and cartwheels and all of the stuff that she couldn’t do in beginners gymnastics.

She swallows and clears her throat. “I, uh, I’m sorry I made you sleep on the floor last night. You must be stiff.”

Thor laughs. “You didn’t make me sleep on the floor.”

She frowns, “I didn’t? Because, honestly, that sounds like something I’d do…”

“No,” he says, still smiling at her. “You invited me to sleep with you, but I…” he looks away a little, almost seeming shy. “I didn’t want to take advantage of you. You were very drunk and I didn’t want to put you in a situation that you’d regret in the morning.”

Her mouth hangs open.

And it’s still hanging open a little when he asks her if she wants to eat breakfast with him. She agrees and they stumble over to the dining hall together.

They aren’t the only half-delirious, half-hungover people there.

Steve Rogers and Bucky Barnes slowly eat pancakes, talking in low voices next to the window. Steve waves at the two of them when he sees them, but Bucky only nods in greeting.

Thor gets a biscuits and gravy.

Jane is considering getting an egg-white omelette when a sudden fear takes her. What if omelettes are too boring? What if Thor realizes she’s just Plain Jane and gets bored with her? What if he sees her with her stupid spinach and feta egg-white omelette and leaves her to go sit with Steve and Bucky? He  _ has _ other options,  _ obviously. _

I mean just look at him.

So she gets pancakes.

A stack of five because the idiot behind the counter doesn’t understand panic when he sees it.

When they sit down, it’s all she can do to stare at the mountain of sugar and carbs and diabetes before her.

Why is she  _ so _ damn stupid?

Thor must’ve recognized the panic on her face (unlike the moron handing out pancakes as if there were no such thing as starving children or third world countries) because he laughs warmly and helps himself to them.

And that’s how Jane Foster starts her first full day at college, sharing pancakes with the most beautiful man she’s ever seen.

And, he’s either blind or oblivious to how desperate she is for his approval.

Because he doesn’t treat her like she’s pathetic.

He treats her like he likes her.

And that’s kind of… well, it’s kind of really nice.


	4. Four.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who's been reading!

**What’s a pregame?**

 

Natasha pulls out the vodka at nine in the morning that Saturday.

By eleven, Clint is working out how he can get her to marry him.

She drug all of them out of their beds and into the lounge on the fifth floor, still dressed in her pajamas. Pale yellow boxer shorts and a loose grey T-shirt. She was barefoot and Clint has never seen anything as sexy as her in his entire life.

There were eight of them, rubbing their eyes at nine o’clock in the morning.

Stark is sitting at one end of the couch. His PJs, as with everything else to do with him, look expensive. Possibly silk.. Her head resting on his hip, Maria’s got the long, plaid pajama bottoms and a white tank top look going. There’s nothing intimate about the way that she lays on top of him.

There  _ is _ however, a lot of intimacy in the way that she holds Darcy between her legs, arms crossed over the other girl’s chest, their feet tangled together.

Bruce Banner shares the loveseat with Jane. He wears a crew neck, she’s got on a matching pajama set. They’re both wearing glasses and looking confused and uncomfortable.

Bucky is on the floor, leaning against the loveseat between Jane and Bruce, not touching either of them. He has one knee drawn up, elbow resting on it as he runs a hand through his hair. He’s wearing sweatpants. That’s it.

Natasha, in her little yellow shorts, has her legs crossed under her in the only armchair while Clint perches on the edge of it. For a moment, he wishes he looked like Bucky, no shirt, rippling muscles and sweatpants. But he’s a T-shirt and basketball shorts kinda guy.

Nice, easy, casual.

Jane yawns and stretches her arms over her head. “What are… what are we all doing here? Where are the others?”

Where are the others?

Where’s  _ Thor? _

“They’re already getting ready for the game,” Stark answers. “Rogers left at like the crack of dawn.”

“They had to be there at six-thirty,” Bucky mutters, narrowing his eyes a little.

“What are we doing here?” Maria asks, absentmindedly playing with Darcy’s hair. “The game isn’t till three.”

A smile cracks over Clint’s face. “We’re pregaming,” he says, twisting over to grin down at Natasha.

Her eyes meet his and without looking away, she reaches between the cushions behind her and pulls out the vodka that she always seems to just have on hand. Clint feels all warm and goofy just looking at her in her stupid yellow shorts, messy red hair, holding a bottle of Russian vodka at nine o’clock in the morning.

He might even have butterflies in his stomach.

“Anyone ever told you that you’re a dream?” He asks.

She cracks open the vodka and smiles at him. “I’m not a dream, Barton. I’m a nightmare.”

Looking at her, Clint wouldn’t mind nightmares nearly so much if she starred in them.

Jane breaks the mood by asking tentatively, “What’s a pregame?”

 

* * *

 

**We’ll wear black for our livers.**

 

The RAs lost to Natasha and Clint.

At beer pong.

Epically.

Phil tried to be a good sport, but Nick’s one good eye was twitching and everyone thought it best that Nick go and get another drink.

Tony’s laughing, leaning against a wall with a glass tumbler in one hand filled with very expensive scotch from his flask.

Bruce is next to him looking nervous and nursing a beer.

They’re currently at an off-campus house rented out by a few of the older football players for the after party. Which is why, when Nick saw them walk in as a massive mob of people, he glared at them and poked Tony in the chest. “I didn’t see you. You didn’t see me.”

And then proceeded to chug a beer, crumple up the can, and throw it at Rogers.

“Yeah,” Tony grinned, “RAs are definitely not supposed to do that in front of their residents.”

They were still not seeing each other when their residents absolutely thrashed them on the beer pong table. Nick stalks off for a much-needed temper tantrum and Clint turns to Natasha with hungry eyes circa Dirty Dancing. He wraps a hand around her shoulders and punches a fist into the air above his head.

Clint’s a little handsy when he’s drunk.

And not just with the most terrifying woman Tony’s ever met.

With  _ everybody. _

He walked up to Thor like five minutes ago and squeezed the blonde giant’s ass. “You deserve a little extra for winning the game today, roomie.”

Thor laughed.

When it was Steve’s turn, though, and Clint reached under the quarterback’s arms, resting his chin on the Boy Scout’s shoulder and giving him a little hug, Steve flushes bright red.  _ Yeah, _ Tony rolls his eyes. Everyone’s going to keep buying this straight-and-narrow shit.

Especially with the pining looks that he keeps throwing at Bucky.

Bucky who is slouched in a doorway looking brooding and perfect with his hair pushed back from his face, watching the party unfold with an unreadable look in his eyes. He can’t go two minutes without a beautiful girl coming up to talk to him with a bright flashy smile.

_ “Ey, Frosty! Get your ass over here! Room 502 versus 504.” _

Everyone’s eyes snap over to Bucky, who’s staring curiously at Clint and Natasha. He steps up, rolling his shoulders back.  _ The baseball player. _

He doesn’t look at Sam who’s already standing at the table.

Neither of them look at each other.

_ Sexual tension, _ Tony sings in his head, chuckling a little to himself. Bruce shoots him a strange look, but they all settle in to watch the game.

Sam and Bucky are good.

Good coordination, good depth perception (Nick’s downfall), they’re competitive (Phil’s downfall), and they are working silently and efficiently together as a team.

Clint and Natasha… are just  _ better _ .

Even drunk off his ass and trying to impress Natasha by making stupid shots, Clint throws the ping pong ball with the accuracy of a world-class sniper. Shutting his eyes, spinning in three circles and tossing it over his head, he nails the cup that he called out to begin with. He comes over, steals some of Bruce’s drink and then without looking back, he chucks the ping pong ball under his left elbow and somehow makes it in.

Natasha is effortless, ruthless efficiency.

By the end of the game, Sam and Bucky are shaking and Clint can barely stand up.

And that’s when Steve comes over to Tony.

_ Oh fuck. _

He reaches up and rubs the back of his neck, big muscles bulging under his shirt sleeves. Bright blue eyes might be a little too bright from the few drinks he’s had. And there is a statistically significant chance that jeans were designed to be worn by him.

_ Fuck me. Please. _

“Listen, Tony, I feel like we got started off on the wrong foot…”

_ Fuck me. _

“Can we start over?”

Hopeful blue eyes, adorably nervous…  _ Baby, you could ask me to relinquish my inheritance of Stark Industries looking like that. _

“Deal,” Tony says, grinning. He sticks out a hand. “Hi, Tony Stark. I sleep too little, talk too much, and drink coffee like it’s water.”

Steve smiles and takes Tony’s hand.  _ (Warm.) _ “Steve Rogers. Art history major, quarterback for the football team, and gay.” He looks sheepish again. “Would you mind keeping that last bit quiet though?”

His eyes shift over to Bucky.

_ Fuck me. _

“Yeah,” Tony says. “No problem.”

So much problem.

Every problem.

“Great,” Steve smiles.  _ (Oh, fuck me please) _ . “See you around then.”


	5. five.

 

**It’s a pattern… A hungover pattern, but a pattern.**

 

Tony Stark wakes up in his bed, face buried in his pillow. Blearily opening his eyes, he can see Steve across the room stretching his arms over his head before rolling over and going back to sleep.

_ Fuck… me? _

Ugh. Not right now.

Tony rolls out of bed, flinching when his bare feet hit the cold floor.

It takes him until he reaches the bathroom to realize that he isn’t wearing his very soft and very expensive pajamas, but the clothes from last night. Shaking his head blearily, he goes for the first stall.

But it’s occupied.

Bruce.

Completely naked.

Except for a life jacket with his legs stuck through the armholes.

He’s just starting to wake up too and he looks miserably at Tony. “I don-- I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

Tony smirks. “It’s almost impressive. Where the hell did you even find a life jacket? We’re like four hours from any sort of body of water.”

Bruce doesn’t answer.

He probably can’t answer.

Some mysteries are better left unsolved.

“Is there anyone out there?” He asks, nodding towards the door.

“No. You’re good.” Tony heads into the next stall, laughing.

Steve is still asleep when Tony gets back into the room and changes into a ratty pair of sweatpants. He pulls a textbook into his lap and cracks it open.

He’s never been a good reader.

When he was little, he would get bored and skip chapters. It became a game, see how far ahead he could skip and still understand what was going on. His dad’s old college textbooks were easy. All he had to do was think about it for a little bit and he could figure it all out for himself.

The most challenging genre… his mom’s romance novels.

Characters went from hating each other to having sex to hating each other in a matter of sentences.

He eventually developed a prediction formula for romance.

But it was still his best stress relieving technique.

“Are you actually reading that, or are you just flipping pages?”

Tony jumps a little.

Steve is sitting up, sheets twisted around his legs. He’s smiling a little skeptically at Tony and does not look at all hungover.

Tony looks back down at the book and shrugs a little. “It’s a version of reading.”

“What’s it about?”

“Quantum computers.”

“That does…” Steve frowns deeply. “That doesn’t sound like a freshman level class.”

“It isn’t,” Tony looks down. “I get bored easily.”

The book is still opened in his lap an hour later, unread. Steve is sitting with his back against the wall, a pillow in his lap. They only moved so that Tony could get a cup of coffee. Steve looked genuinely touched when Tony handed him a cup of tea.

The conversation was light.

And fun.

Tony feels warm, laughing at some self-depreciating joke Steve just made. He mentions not liking bullies and getting beat up a lot as a kid.

“I can’t imagine that at all,” Tony laughs.

“Yeah, well it happened a lot,” Steve’s smiling. “I was a bit of an idiot who didn’t realize how small I was and I didn’t like bullies. Still don’t.”

Amicable silence and then--

“I didn’t know you wore glasses.”

Tony looks up and shrugs a little. “I try not to wear them if I can help it. They make me look like a nerd.”

“That wasn’t what I was going to say,” Steve smiles.

“What were you going to say?”

“It’s… cute.” Steve’s cheeks flush. “When I first saw you, you just seemed so rich and everything seemed so expensive. And I’ve always been poor. Right now, you just look like a regular guy. And the glasses are cute.”

If Steve wasn’t so embarrassed, he probably would’ve been able to hear Tony’s heart doing backflips.

But he is  _ so _ embarrassed.

Because he’s not used to letting himself be gay.

Because Tony is the first person he’s ever been able to express himself around.

And Tony knows how that feels.

As he currently still doesn’t get to be himself around anyone.

So, Tony closes the book and he smirks. “Well, if you think it’s cute now then you should’ve seen me when I was four… I had  _ everyone _ eating out of my hand. This one Christmas party…”

Steve looks up, grateful and happy for the story.

He forgets that he’s embarrassed.

_ Cute, huh? _

Tony makes a mental note to wear his glasses more often.

 

* * *

 

**It’s a date?**

 

Sunday night. Seven o’clock.

What are you doing Jane?

Playing Go Fish and debating particle physics with Bruce Banner and Tony  _ freaking _ Stark, and pretending like she isn’t completely distracted every time that Thor moves next to her.

She’s terrible at the game.

Every time she gets excited about one of her arguments, she waves her arms around, effectively showing everyone her cards. Bruce and Tony aren’t paying attention to that though, because they’re doing the same thing. Thor is destroying all of them.

On the other side of the room, the others are playing poker and eating the free pizza that they’d pilfered from the lobby downstairs.

Freshman Welcome Week.

All the freshmen move in a week early so they can get settled in, used to the campus and accustomed to living without their parents. But it means that they have nothing to do for seven days except spend time with each other.

Which Jane is not minding at all.

She seems to be spending more time on the fifth floor than on her own.

And she tried to stay away.

She really did.

But Thor came downstairs and said that they were just going to relax and watch a movie and that she, Darcy and Maria should come upstairs.

When Tony stops for a breath, Thor cuts in real quick and touches her arm. “Where are Darcy and Maria?”

Jane starts a little. “Oh, uh, they’re on a date.”

Tony leans forward at that. “A date? Crazy taser lady and the second-best poker face of the century?”

“Uh, yeah.”

Tony twists over and calls across the room to Clint, who is occupied by his favorite hobby of trying to impress the first-best poker face of the century. “Hey, Barton! You owe me ten bucks, Lewis and Hill are on a date!”

“No way? Already?” Clint almost falls out of his chair. He looks like a school boy he’s so excited.  _ “Yes. _ Now all I need to do is convince them that I would be a hard-working and valuable asset in the bedroom--”

He keeps going on about a boyish fantasy.

Which Natasha cuts down, laughing a little.

He earnestly starts arguing with her, claiming his prowess in bed. He’s trying to have a structured argument, but she cuts in with sly little remarks and he gets distracted, laughing. Eventually he gives up and just collapses dramatically into her lap.

Her face tightens for a second.

But then she starts playing with his hair.

They watch a movie.

It took nearly forty-five minutes for everyone to agree on one, the third Harry Potter movie (Tony felt that the second was too dark and that he can’t get into the fourth because everyone needs a haircut-- Sam agreed that the hair was on point in the third while Steve was just happy that the presence of spiders was minimal in the third, meanwhile Bucky was basically pouting because he liked the Dumbledore from the first movie best). It also took an impressive amount of time to make popcorn. Tony and Clint debated optimal popcorn cook time while Natasha, Bruce, and Steve ignored them and made it on their own. And  _ then _ there was the issue where Tony wanted mint chocolates in his popcorn. He earnestly told Steve that it changed the entire popcorn game (Steve eventually agreed).

By the time that the movie was over and everyone was heading back to bed, it was nearly one-thirty in the morning.

Jane yawned while Thor walked her down the stairs.

He’d been quiet the whole movie.

In the stairwell, he stopped before the door to the fourth floor and looked at her. “Jane…”

“Yeah?” She smiles up at him.

“I didn’t… I don’t.” He stops. “I didn’t do this earlier because I was worried that it was too fast, but if Maria and Darcy are already-- would you like to go on a date sometime?”

He looks nervous.

Genuinely nervous.

Jane blushes and looks away. “Yeah… that would be a lot of fun.”

He smiles.

As if he thought she could say no.

  
  
  



End file.
